


Bred for Their Skills in Magic

by Kelouisa



Category: Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter - Laurell K. Hamilton, Napoleon Dynamite (2004)
Genre: Crack, Other, SO SORRY, so wrong, the crackiest thing ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:37:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelouisa/pseuds/Kelouisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon Dynamite auditions for a job at Circus of the Damned.</p>
<p>Be SO THANKFUL I didn't have him audition for Guilty Pleasures.</p>
<p>Still, I'm desperately sorry.  This is the crackiest thing I've ever written in my life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bred for Their Skills in Magic

The applicant that sat across from Jean-Claude in his office at Guilty Pleasures made him want to pinch the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming on like none had come on for four hundred years. If Micah hadn’t made him promise to give this guy a fair shot, he’d have been subtly redirected into the river ten minutes ago. After only a brief interview, Jean-Claude was distracted with ways to torment Micah in revenge. 

“What can I say, Jean-Claude? He’s one of a kind,” he’d said when requesting an interview for a Coalition acquaintance. 

One of a kind. Jean-Claude gave a mental snort. That was for sure. The young man was tall and spare, skinny even. His hair was a muted orange and framed his head in a wild curly mane of frizz. He’d walked into the office dressed for the interview... well, let’s just say Jean-Claude wanted to immediately strip him bare, but only to burn his clothing. And those boots. The boots. They had to go. 

“...so like my mom is really rare, being born a weretiger, and my dad was a werelion. But she wasn’t tied to the moon phase, so she could still have kids: me and my brother, Kip, who’s an _idiot._ I can’t _stand_ to live with him and my grandma anymore, so I came out here. Micah said you might have a place for me to do my magic show. Real ligers are bred for their skills in magic, you know.” 

Jean-Claude started at the break in the seemingly incessant droning and realized he was required to give an answer, but didn’t remember hearing a question. 

“ _Pardon_?” 

“Ligers. Have skills in magic. See?” The young man held out a crude pen-on-lined-paper drawing of a tiger with a mane, the kind of picture someone draws when they think they are an artist, but aren’t. “This is a self-portrait of what I look like when I Change. I worked for like three hours on the shading. I’m a wereliger. Didn’t Micah tell you? Geez!” 

“Oh, that’s impressive,” Jean-Claude made a show of examining the picture. But his interviewee was off again describing his act. 

“I think we should definitely mention that I’m a liger. On the boards and maybe we could make some fliers. A liger magician. We could use my picture! It would be awesome! I’ve got some real sweet tricks I can do, too.” Jean-Claude tried to appear enthused and nodded. “You want me to show you? I really should audition, show you what I can do.” 

“By all means, let's do.” Jean-Claude stood up, desperate for any excuse to not sit in this room alone with this man one minute longer. “I am certain some of my people could be found to be your audience.” He opened the door before his visitor had even managed to stand. 

Napoleon shuffled through the door, his moon boots puffing out stale air with every step. Jean-Claude let him go first, then indulged himself in his nose-bridge pinch. 

* * * * * 

It didn’t take long to gather an “audience,” since a few of the dancers were on stage practicing, bartenders were taking inventory, and, in general, Guilty Pleasures had its share of menials running about at all times. When Jean-Claude indicated they should sit, they hurried to obey, though Jason was a bit slow to jump off the stage from his performance to the main floor. He scrambled to shut off the music, leaning over the edge of the DJ booth, bare ass hanging out of his thong. Jason ended up being the last to sit, near the back, as Jean-Claude took the stage to make his introduction. As Jean-Claude raised an arm towards the back of the stage, Jason hissed in an exaggerated stage whisper to Nathaniel, “Dude, where are my pants?” Thus, snickers greeted Napoleon as he lurched out from behind the black curtain. Though, if anything, the snickers held back the full blown laughter that might have greeted him by allowing a small outlet of hilarity. 

Napoleon took the stage with a flourish, then froze a little in the spotlights suddenly focused on him. He paused for a while, until silence eclipsed the whispers and giggles that had buzzed across the small crowd. 

“For my first trick, I’m going to make this official He-Man action figure levitate.” And he pulled the toy from his fanny pack and held it up, dangling by a string that smelled suspiciously like mint dental floss to the sensitive noses in the audience. 

Jean-Claude stood near the back of his audience and shut his eyes, holding in a groan. He didn’t have enough graceful gestures to disguise his ill fortune in having to watch this monstrosity of an act. 

Until the He-Man action figure actually began to levitate, bending the floss it had been dangled from in a distinct U shape. Who knew? It wasn’t a brilliant trick, but at least it was a trick. More than Jean-Claude had expected up until this point. Mild applause from the audience. Hmm. 

“For my next trick, I’ll make this quart of milk disappear into thin air.” And he rolled up a newspaper from the small table next to him, and began to pour a glass bottle of milk into the funnel. After setting down the empty bottle, he shook the newspaper lightly and a few obvious drops of milk flew about. 

“Oops, didn’t quite disappear it all,” he said, and proceeded to tip the funnel of soggy paper into his mouth. “Tastes like the cow got into an onion patch.” Hesitant laughter from the crowd, as if they weren’t sure this was a joke or not. After a few bobs of his pronounced Adam’s apple, Napoleon flung out the roll of paper, now dry and as if it had only ever been rolled up to swat a dog. More applause, and a little more laughter at the milk mustache Napoleon now sported. 

He did a few more tricks, mostly silly things like card tricks and “amazing mind-reading skills,” but Jean-Claude watched his audience more than his act. They loosened up and actually started to laugh, and clap hard. They liked this weird young man, but not for amazing tricks. This guy was a born comedian, even if he didn’t seem to know it. 

After the about the tenth trick, Napoleon looked up at the audience abruptly, said, “If you hire me, all your wildest dreams will come true,” and turned and walked off the stage. A bit of looking around followed, then applause as if they realized his act was actually over. 

Jean-Claude took one more look at his test audience, who had started to disperse resume their former activities, and headed backstage. 

“So, what didja think?” And without waiting for a reply, Napoleon continued, “I was thinking I could get a silk shirt or something, and maybe a cape.” 

“Oh, I agree completely. I am pleased to offer you a spot at the Laughing Corpse...” 

“But I thought I would be working at the Circus. You know, something under the big top.” 

“ _Au contraire, mon ami._ I think your act would be best in a smaller arena, so that your act could be more fully appreciated. It’s hard to see your,” and here Jean-Claude paused to avoid saying ‘skills,’ “technique from such a distance as in the Circus. But we will definitely advertise our new magical liger, a rare and fortunate addition to the JC Enterprises staff.” 

Napoleon looked like he might refuse for a moment, but then nodded. “Hey, I like your gun, it’s real big.” Jean-Claude looked confused for a moment, until he noticed Napoleon was looking behind him. ‘Gun’ could only mean the arrival of... “ _Ma petite_.” 

Jean-Claude took her hand in his and kissed it, gently bringing her forward. 

“Napoleon, this is Federal Marshal Anita Blake. You may have heard of her as the Executioner. _Ma petite_ , this is Napoleon Dynamite, the newest addition to our staff. He’s a liger.” Jean-Claude turned to Napoleon. “Anita has a degree in preternatural biology. I’m certain she’d be fascinated to know about your lineage. It’s so rare when two species who generally can’t produce offspring on their own manage to mix.” 

Anita looked half-pained and half-fascinated, but shook Napoleon’s hand in silence. 

“I used a 12 gauge last summer shooting wolverines with my uncle in Alaska, so if you ever need any help staking a cohort of evil, I’m available. I also have my own numb-chucks and I’m pretty good with a bo-staff.” 

Jean-Claude would have laughed at the look on Anita’s face as she tried to keep her composure if she wouldn’t have exacted revenge later that night. 

“Thanks, Napoleon, but that shouldn’t be necessary. I generally don’t use back-up.” 

“Well, keep me in mind, just in case.” 

“Oh, I imagine I won’t be able to forget you.” With a gracious smile, Anita proved she was learning politics. As he was about to walk away, she stopped him. “Are those moon boots? I have been dying for a good pair of warm boots for winter...” At Jean-Claude’s horrified eyes, she stopped, holding in laughter. She could only assure him later that she was teasing. 

“If you’ll excuse us. I’ll send someone out with your paperwork and we’ll make the arrangements for you to start rehearsals.” 

Napoleon wandered off into the front of the house, leaving Anita and Jean-Claude alone. From a distance, they heard his voice one last time before they left. 

“Does anyone have any Chapstick? Dang, my lips hurt real bad.”

**Author's Note:**

> I had originally posted this story on Pomme de Sang, the Anita Blake fanfic site. Moving it here just to consolidate my old stories with my new ones.


End file.
